


Once Upon a Time in Vice City

by Keighterton



Category: Grand Theft Auto V, Grand Theft Auto: Vice City
Genre: Awkward Romance, Bromance, Developing Friendships, Drugs, F/M, Gen, Kidnapping, cursing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:36:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22653352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keighterton/pseuds/Keighterton
Summary: Trevor has sold tainted meth to the wrong person and that person is Gibson who is determined to get her money back and maybe a pound of flesh.
Relationships: Trevor Philips/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 8





	1. Bad Deal, Bad Time.

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written fanfiction in AGES. I'm talking ten years probably. This is my first stab at the GTA universe and perhaps my last. Who fucking knows? I half ass edited it because I just wanted to bite the bullet and post before I wussed out.
> 
> ConCrit welcome.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this piece of shit story.

“Look, honey. We both know you aren’t gonna shoot me,” He leaned his head into the gun barrel at the base of his skull while his knees ached on the dull and tattered linoleum of his trailer. The gun cocked behind him. 

“I’m thinking about it,” she said. “I mean, how hard could it be?”

“The mess alone will be a pain in the ass.”

She scanned the trashed trailer. No part of it was not touched with grime, dust, or something sticky she would rather not identify. 

“I really don’t think it would mess up the decor you’ve got going on in here.” She looked back at him. “You know you’ve got an impressive bald spot on the back of your head. Why haven’t you tattooed that?”

The dingy man just shrugged. He felt her fingers run over the scalp of his head and he sighed. It felt nice despite the threat of a bullet through the brain. 

“Trevor Fucking Philips,” she said gently. Then she shoved his head forward with such violent force that Trevor almost lost his balance. “You were an easy man to find, you know that?”

“What can I say,” Trevor shrugged again, “I’m a god damned social butterfly.” He tried to turn his head to see the woman standing behind him but she flicked his cheek with her middle finger, leaving a little red mark. “Ouch!” he growled. The woman pressed the gun even harder against his skull. “So with whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”

“You can call me Gibson,” the woman said.

“Well, Gibson,” he said, his tone mocking, “To what do I owe this house call?” He heard handcuffs click open and then felt the sensation of cold metal slapping on right wrist. She pulled his left arm back behind him and secured the left cuff. “Shit, LSPD?” he groaned then he shouted at her. “I got a lawyer! I got rights!”

She laughed and pulled his arms up, twisting his shoulders “No. Get up.” Reluctantly Trevor got on his feet.

“FIB?”

“Wrong again,” she replied, guiding him to the chair in the middle of what had been a kitchen at one time. “Sit down.” she commanded, trying to push him down by his shoulders which were a good seven inches or so higher than her own. 

“Make me.”

The butt of her gun swiped down at the back of his left knee, jarring it out of place and he crumpled into the dirty dinette chair. She took a pair of shackles and began restraining his legs, pulling his feet back, threading the chain in the back of the chair and securing both ankle cuffs. “There.” she said. “Want to take another guess?” she ask as she walked around him. “You're 0 for 2.” 

Trevor took a long look at her, finally taking in who it was that had got the drop on him in the middle of chugging down a beer. She wasn’t too tall. About 5’6” if he was being generous. She was average in weight. He couldn’t tell if she was muscular or not with what she was wearing, a pair of fitted dusty maroon pants, some biker boots, and loose teal button up shirt, tucked into the pants. Looked like silk. Gibson’s face, calm and almost pompously confident, was diamond shape with high cheek bones and a nose that was almost too big for her. Large honey brown eyes almost balanced out the nose and she could have been pretty if it wasn’t for her hair. A short scruffy pixie cut that really wasn’t that bad in its dull brown color. It was the stupid beaded braid that hung down over her left sideburn. ‘What kind of Star Wars bullshit is this?’ he thought. 

“Secret admirer?” he guessed, flashing her a grin.

“Strike three.” the back of her hand flew across his face, snapping his head right and almost tilting the chair. He felt a sting where his teeth bit his lip. “You done?”

Trevor looked back at her adjusting his jaw side to side. A thin trickle of blood seeped from the corner of his smiling mouth. “Sure. Enlighten me.”

“I run a little business out of Vice City and your product is, well was, one of our best sellers.”

He shrugged his large shoulders. “Ok, well this is an interesting way to treat a colleague.”

“Exactly,” she said casually crossing her arms. “Normally I may have come up, taken you out to dinner, had some drinks, and we could have smoothed all this out. However, under the circumstances, I felt a more direct approach was in order.”

Trevor frowned, his brows meshing together in confusion. “Hold up,” he growled, “I don’t remember selling to anyone in Vice City.”

She gave him a smirk. “You're pretty sharp despite your…appearance.” she looked down at the bench like couch attached the the wall of the trailer. It was covered in cigarette butts, wrappers, dirty clothes, and… oh gross, was that a used condom? She opted to drag another dinette chair over and she sat down in front of Trevor. 

“God, why do you live like this?” she asked as she looked around. “You’re a successful distributor. I know you’ve got money so why do you live in squalor? You can afford better than- oh wait,” she laughed and pointed the gun at him as it she were pointing her finger, “You shit where you eat, don’t you?” she rolled her eyes, “Well that explains all of,” she waved the gun around addressing the entirety of the trailer, “this. You could clean up good if you wanted to, you know that?”

“No thanks,” he snapped, “I’m pretty comfortable in my mess but thank you for your concern.” He began jerking his legs, testing the strength of the dinette chair. It was an old piece of shit. It could break if he struggled hard enou-

“Don't do that,” she said with a slight annoyance in her alto voice. “I am not wanting to kill you right this second.”

Trevor glared at her for a moment, then sighed. “Fine. So I supply you a product. What’s the problem?”

“Yes, business first.”

“Pleasure later?” he gave her a wide toothy grin which she ignored.

“If you live, what you do with your time after I leave is your own business.” She crossed her legs, setting one boot over her knee. Trevor looked at them. For biker boots, they looked way to clean and blemish free for anyone who actually did some riding.

He smirked, “You didn’t ride a motorcycle all the way here from Vice did you?”

“Nah, I took a taxi to Sandy Shores, what a shit hole, and then after some business at the bar, I took the bike.”

Trevor’s face lit up and he let out a long cackling laugh. “Shit, crazy cakes!” he howled, “You stole that from the Lost Brotherhood?” he continued to laugh. “That was really stupid, Gibson. Really fucking stupid.”

“Perhaps,” she shrugged. “But its parked out side of your trailer so when I leave, that will be your problem.” Her brows flattened. “Can I continue?”

“By all means, sugar tits.”

“I have a runner who picks up here from you and transports to Vice, delivering to me. The last shipment was tainted and it killed 8 people. Now, I’m out 50k because of you. Plus we’ve wasted enough money cleaning up the mess you started.”

“You sure those junkies didn’t just overdose?”

She pointed the gun at him again, as an alternative to gesturing with her hand. “See, that was my first guess too.” she replied. “But we got a hold of the toxicology reports for all eight. One was an OD so I’ll give you that, but the other seven had a toxic substance in their system aside from the meth. So the batch,” she tapped his knee with the pistol, “Was. Tainted.”

Trevor looked away from her, huffing. “It was your runner, then.”

Gibson’s lips smiled at him while her light brown eyes did not. “You sure your last name isn’t Holmes?”

He turned back and glared at her. “I’m starting to really hate you.”

Gibson mocked a frown, jutting her lower lip out at him. “But you were really starting to grow on me, Trev.”

“Don’t call me Trev.”

She raised her hands in defense, “Sorry, sorry. Trevor.” He looked away from Gibson again, his mouth in a hard line and his eyes glowering. “Anyhow,” she continued, “I have a system with my runners to prevent tampering but you can never be too sure so I went ahead and let them go.” She raised two fingers on each hand and scrunched them in the air, putting her last three words in quotations.

“Fine, then who are your runners?”

“You mean were,” Gibson corrected.

“Ok, were.” His tone was mocking which Gibson decided to disregard.

“You would know them as The Lost Brotherhood whom you mentioned earlier. So my guess,” she said as she watched Trevor’s dark brown eyes widen with realization, “Is that taint was meant for those biker boys and not us.”

Trevor let out an angry growling shout as his began thrashing against his chains. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Son of a bitch, FUCK!” His tantrum, the sound of the chains, mixed with the sound of his chair and his feet thumping on the floor were the only sounds in the dumpy trailer as she watched him in his small meltdown. 

“I take it you have an idea of what happened?”

“Ugh, Yes!” he snapped. “So what do you want? Money or your pound of flesh? I’ve got the money but I’m not sure if I’m available to get tortured by dyke-ish looking wanna be drug lord.”

She looked at him flatly and leaned in over her leg. “Actually, Trevor, I’m going to need both.”

He scrunched his face in confusion. “I don’t follow.”

Slowly she stood, stretching her not at all tall body, and then she began walking around him in the chair, slowly trailing a finger across his arms and back, finally resting her hands on his shoulders. Gibson leaned down to his ear, her breath lightly brushing his cheek. She took a breath to speak but jerked up instead, hand to her mouth, gagging.

“Holy Jesus what did you roll in?” she choked out another gag, “Fetid meat and rancid hooker panties? Shit, man!” Gibson pulled back some more and went around to face him. Trevor licked his lips and smiled, waggling his eyebrows at her.

“You like it?”

Instead of replying, Gibson just grimaced, regarding him for a long while. He was filthy. Dirt in every crease, stubble and an unkempt mustache, heavy dark bags under his eyes, greasy balding hair, and the smell. God that smell. The large teeshirt he wore had it’s sleeves cut off. The sad piece of fabric he wore on his dirty body which had probably been white in another life time, was now dishwater grey with stains that ranged from sweat to things she probably didn’t want to know about. Trevor’s derelict look was completed by a pair of brown work pants that from the looks of it, never took a spin in a washer, and brown run hard worn down work boots. Her grimace deepened as she shook her head.

“You know,” she began, “I really wish I could just shoot you now and end this miserable pathetic,” she used her gun to gesture at the entirety of him, “whatever you’ve got going on here. It would honestly be a mercy killing at this point.”

Trevor’s amused face quickly shifted to anger and he began shouting at her. “Look, bitch!” he barked, “If we aren’t gonna fuck, and trust me I’d be more than willing to give those guts a stir, why in the hell are you giving two shits about my appearance?” He continued to rant at her and Gibson said nothing, her face relaxing and becoming passive. Her arms crossed over her chest. 

She cut him off when he went to take a breath, breaking his rant. “Are you done with your little tantrum?”

“Fuck you.”

She sighed as she raised the gun and squeezed off a around towards his head. Trevor flinched as the bullet slung by, grazing his ear lobe and then hitting the faucet behind him. The plastic of the faucet shattered at the base, spewing water up into the air and then down on the counters and floor. 

“What the actual fuck?” he yelled. “This is my fucking trailer! You’re gonna pay for those repairs, you crazy bitch!”

Gibson leaned down and put the barrel of the gun against the stubbly flesh under his chin. 

“Trevor,” she said gently, “I really need you to calm yourself so we can finish this conversation.” She pulled the gun from his face and then took his stubbly chin in her fingers. Her hand jerked his chin forcing him to look at her. “So can you do that for me, Trevor?” She gazed into his eyes, dilated from drugs no doubt. Trevor glared at her for a moment but eventually she felt his jaw relax and saw his shoulders loose their tension.

“Fine,” Trevor finally replied. Gibson smiled at him and released his face.

“Thank you. Now where is the shut off valve for your sink?”

“Under the sink. Where else?”

She rolled her eyes. “How am I supposed to know how your trashy tin can works?” she snapped back, turning on her heel to the sink. She rummaged around the piping under the sink and wrenched off a valve. The water immediately stopped and she stood, dusting her hands off. Gibson returned to Trevor.

“Your’e soaked,” Then muttered, “you needed a bath…” Cutting across to the bathroom she asked, “Got any towels?”

“Top shelf over the toilet.”

“Top shelf over the toilet,” she repeated and soon returned with a brown tattered towel. With it, she began toweling off his face and his head, then draped it over his shoulder. Gibson sat back down in the chair before him, gun on her lap.

Trevor shot her a vexed look.

“Ok, here’s the deal. I am going to need a full refund plus damages and then I also need you to come to Vice City with me so you can produce from there with my people overseeing. Basically you work for me.”

“I don’t even make-“

“I know. But I still want you since you’re the asshole who sold it to us.”

He gave her an incredulous look. “Are you serious?”

“Absolutely. You are our best supplier but in lieu of, well, all of this, I’m afraid we will need to have a hand in regulation and quality control.”

“Nah.” he shook his head. “Fuck Vice City. Full of yuppies and assholes. No. Fuck that. No.”

Gibson sighed. “I understand,” she said as she stood up, nodding her head sympathetically. “I was really looking forward to a continued business relationship with you but,” she lifted the gun and pushed the barrel between his unkempt eyebrows. “Have it your way.”

There was a loud bang.

Gibson’s left shoulder snapped back an hot pain coursed through her muscle.

“Fuck!” Trevor yelled, struggling and jumping in his chair. “Get down!” he yelled. Gibson rushed him and knocked him over in the chair, trying to unlock the shackles and cuffs as bullets pelted the tin can trailer. “Come on… Come on!” Trevor shouted over the gun fire. Gibson’s hands worked quickly and freed the man’s wrists and ankles. Once unhindered, Trevor grabbed her by the wrist and made a mad dash to the bedroom, hauling her behind him. 

“The walls are reinforced in here!” He unceremoniously shoved her down on the dirty floor between the bed and a dresser. She crouched down obediently.

“What’s going on? Who is shooting at us?” she yelled over the noise. 

“Those,” Trevor shouted back, pointing in the general direction of the gunfire, “Those are the fucks I was trying to kill!”

“Oh son of a bitch!” she yelled back. “We need to-“ The window in Trevor’s bedroom shattered, and Gibson let out a scream. Glass rained down on them and Trevor made an attempt to shield her with his body.

“Shit Shit Shit!” He looked at her and she returned his gaze. “You ok?”

“Yeah, I’m good.” she replied, “Man we gotta get out of here!”

“Its a shitty trailer!” Trevor shouted. “There’s no fucking back door!” More glass fell on them, remnants of the shattered window. “We just have to wait it out! They won’t be able to get through the walls!” Again he used his body to try to protect her. “Just keep your head down!”

They sat, crouched and pressed together in the small space while bullets peppered the outside of the trailer and tore through the kitchenette and living space side. Soon the gunfire tapered off and then was silent as the sounds of sirens rose up to take their place. 

“We need to get the fuck out of here!” said a voice from the outside.

“But did we get him?”

“Well if we didn’t we ain’t getting another shot if we get arrested!”

“Fuck it. We can come back around when the heat dies down. Get your bike and lets go!” Motorcycle engines revel outside like thunder rolling through the now shredded trailer. “You better hope you’re dead, Trevor!” one man yelled. Then they heard the sound of the motorcycles peeling out on the gravel and then on to the black top away from Trevors home. 

Immediately Trevor stood, Gibson’s wrist in his hand trying to get her up. “Come on! Get up, get up, get up!” She stood shakily. “Lets go. We have to go now.”

“Hey, Vice City is nice this time of year.” she told him as they stepped though the glass. The sirens were louder and not far off now.

“Go fuck yourself.” Trevor let out a frustrated growl and pulled at his already thinning hair, “Argh! SHIT!” He turned to her as she picked up the shackles, cuffs, and her gun, shoving them in her pockets. “I got a truck outside so let’s fucking go!” He strode to the door and looked back at her. “Now Gibson!” She walked after him and they made their way over the deck, more rickety than before with the addition of bullet holes. Trevor ran over to a red truck around the side of the house. Gibson followed him but suddenly was aware of a searing hot pain in her right thigh. Her leg buckled and she tumbled down in the dusty grass. 

Gibson’s scanned her leg to examine what had hurt so badly. A bullet wound. A fucking bullet wound right in the leg. “Oh dammit,” she cried out. Trevor looked back hearing her cry out. He paused, moving slightly in her direction to help but changed his mind, going back around the truck. 

“You piece of shit bastard!” she screamed as she forced herself to her feet. She fought her legs and gravity as she raced against him. He would leave her. That son of a bitch would leave her! Her hands grabbed the door handle just as he started the truck and she threw the door open. With the last of her strength and will power, she hauled herself into the truck, her feet dragging the ground as he gunned the engine, trying to speed off.

“You fucking shit head!” she yelled, trying to situate herself and shut the door.

“What?” he yelled back. His face was a deep scowl which offset the wide eyed crazy look he was giving her. “You were safe and alive! Uh, Your welcome, you ingrate!” 

Gibson let out a loud exasperated sigh, “Argh! Play time is over!” she bellowed.

Trevor felt something heavy slap on his left wrist. It stung and he looked down just as she locked herself into the other half of the shackle, tethering them together.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Trevor shrieked. Gibson just grinned at him, trying to fight her eyes that were rolling back in her head as she drooped sideways.

“Screw…you….Trevor….”

Her body gave out as her consciousness took a break from awareness. Trevor looked down at her, bleeding on his seat.

He pressed harder on the gas, directing the truck to Los Santos and into the night.

“Well fuck me…”


	2. Electric Boogaloo (I'm bad at titles)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Gibson is still bleeding all over the Bohdi, Trevor is still chained to her, and as you will see in a candid note, I ended the last chapter on the wrong time of day. Onward to Michael's house. 
> 
> Sorry about the eternity between updates. I messed up my hand and couldn't type, I'm good at procrastinating, the plague is upon us, and I'm easily distractible. Also working on the worlds worst TWD fanfic. Thank you for coming back to read this dumpster fire. :) **

The red, dusty Bodhi rolled up to Michael’s gate house nestled in Rockford Hills just as the sun dipped down below the horizon (because it was day time and your dumb ass fucked up). The drive, with the help of Trevor’s lead foot, had bought them precious time that he figured, after binding her leg with a dirty shirt from the floorboard, Gibson could not afford. He had decided on Michael’s place halfway through the drive and had placed a strained call to his friend.

“Hold on,” Michael’s voice said over the cell, “She’s after you, the Lost are after you, and she’s shot? Do I have this right?”

“Ugh, yes, Michael. Did you want the unabridged story?”

“Why can’t you just take her to the hospital and dump her?”

“Because,” Trevor’s voice was verging on anger, “This crazy bitch handcuffed me to her to make sure I wouldn’t run!” He frowned, listening to the raucous laughter from Michael’s end of the line. “Yeah yeah, Tubs, it’s reaaaal funny. I’m here running for my life with Little Miss Queen Pin bleeding all over the place.” He looked down at Gibson who was slumped down, her head partially resting on his thigh. Her face was ashen and it was hard to tell if she was even breathing anymore. “Shit, we will be there in about 20 min. Call your doctor guy—yes I know about that guy; just fucking call him Michael, and have him come to fix her if she’s not dead yet and maybe I can get this fruit cake off my fucking arm!” Trevor let out a frustrated yell and tossed the phone on the floor board. The last thing Trevor needed right now was a dead chick chained to his wrist. No, he would not be going through that again.

Now in Michael’s driveway, the large rod iron gate slid open, slowly and without hesitation. Trevor gunned the red truck in, nearly missing the gate with his left passenger window. His tires squealed as they came to a sudden halt and Trevor shut down the engine.

“Get up!” he yelled to a still unconscious Gibson. “God dammit, get the fuck up!” Trevor jerked on the shackle, yanking her arm but she only slid slightly across her own blood. He let out a quick grumble of obscenities as he began gathering up her limbs to pull her from the truck. As he carried her to Michael’s front door, her head lay back lifelessly across his arm. 

“Open up, you fat fuck!” Trevor yelled, planting his boot hard on the door frame, which he would have done whether or not his arms had been encumbered. The door immediately opened to very annoyed Michael De Santa, comfy in his house shoes, khaki cargo shorts, and button up. 

“Shit,” he said, looking at the lifeless woman. “Is she dead?” He looked back at Trevor. “What the hell happened to you?”

“Its not my blood! I wrapped her leg with some crap I found in my truck. I didn’t want her to bleed out all over the Bodhi!” Trevor growled. “Dammit, Michael, you gonna let us in or not? Is Amanda home or something?”

“No,” Michael said, moving to the side to let Trevor in, “They’re in Vespucci for the weekend.”

“Good. I can’t stand her ex-stripper face anyhow.” Trevor made his way to the living room.

“Can’t you not talk crap about my wife? She’s not that— No! No, don’t put her on the couch!” Michael yelled as he stopped Trevor, “Put her on the kitchen table! There’s already plastic down. Jesus, Trevor.” Trevor huffed and then carried Gibson to the kitchen. As Michael had said, the table beside the two glass french doors that lead to the back patio. With medical supplies spread and ready, an older man, about 70, stood pulling on a pair of latex gloves.

“Hey, Doc,” Trevor said casually as he all but dumped Gibson’s body on the table. “How’s life been treating ya?”

The man smiled as he began to examine the wounds on the woman laid on the table. “Oh fine, fine,” he looked up over his spectacles. “And who is the patient?”

“Her name is Gibson,” Trevor replied. The shackle that bound them allowed for about two feet of clearance and he took all of it, stepping back away from her. The doctor glanced at the shackle and then went back to his work, unfazed. 

From across the table in the kitchen, Michael pulled two beers from the fridge, popping the tops on both bottles. He held one out to Trevor as he walked around the table. Trevor took it with his left hand, gratefully and tipped it to his chapped lips, taking a long swig.

“Now,” Michael said, glancing at the doctor and then looking back to his less than savory friend. “Explain all of this again?”

Trevor went through an animated run down, jerking her left arm every time he gesticulated with his right. He occasionally motioned to her with the beer bottle, sloshing the liquid on her shirt.

“And then the crazy bitch cuffed me to herself and here we are!” Trevor let out a long frustrated sigh and took another drink, emptying the bottle and setting it on the table by her head. The doctor paused and looked at him.

“Please remove that bottle,” he said simply. Michael grabbed it and returned to the kitchen.

“You know,” called Michael, his head in the fridge. “I think I’ve got some bolt cutters in the garage.”

“Well go get them!” Trevor forcefully pushed his hands towards the garage. “What the fuck are you waiting for? Her permission?”

Michael set another opened beer down, purposefully out of Trevor’s reach and walked to the door leading into the garage. “Don’t go anywhere.” Michaels thin lips smirked.

“Oh fuck you, tubby.” As carefully as he could, Trevor lifted his arm and her arm, trying to walk around the table to the granite island that divided the kitchen and the dining area. Even with the two foot lead, he was unable to reach the beer on the counter. With a sigh he looked at the doctor who had already cut off the sleeve of Gibson’s shirt, working on the bullet wound. “Uh, a little help, Doc?” The old man looked up at Trevor and then followed his arm to where his finger pointed. 

“Oh, of course,” the old man smiled and reached back for the glass bottle. “Here you go.”

Trevor made his way back around, muttering a thank you . Leaning on the table beside her head, he looked at her face. It was still pale but he could see her breathing. “So Doc, is she gonna need blood or some shit like that?”

“Probably not,” the doctor replied, not looking up from his work. “Why? What is your blood type?”

“Pißwasser.” Trevor chuckled at his own joke. The doctor let out a kindly old man chuckle and continued to work on her shoulder where the first bullet had ripped into her flesh. Again, Trevor looked down at her face, speckled with the beer he had accidentally sloshed on her. With his dirty hand, he reached down and wiped at it, pulling her skin and making her face warp slightly. He laughed to himself and did it again. And then again. Then he began pulling at her lip.

“My name is Gibson,” he said in a high falsetto voice, mocking hers, “And I think I’m a bad ass drug dealer but really I’m just some crazy bitch from Vice city with no sense of style.” At this, Trevor let out a belly laugh and then coughing. He poked at her cheek one last time. Her skin was cool and soft. 

Her eyelids lifted, revealing her dark amber eyes. Gibson gasped and cried out, struggling to sit up. “”Where am I?” she asked, her voice panicked. 

“Can you please hold her down?” the doctor asked passively. Trevor nodded and leaned over her, putting his forearm across her windpipe. Gibson wheezed, wide eyed and terrified. 

“No, not like that,” said the doctor, still casual and patient. Trevor huffed and moved his arm to across her chest, leaning down and putting his weight into her. Gibson struggled slightly but couldn’t move. 

“Where are we?” she yelped. 

“Rockford Hills, baby,” Trevor replied. He took a drink from the bottle. “Doc’s almost done with your shoulder.” He looked at her. “Since you decided you wanted to take your little bondage show on the road, I couldn’t exactly take you to a hospital, so I brought you here to my friend’s house. I searched you for the key to these but I couldn’t find it.”

“Good!” she spat, “Now get your filthy ass off of me!”

“No can do, my little pit viper,” he gave her a grin to match his sarcastic tone. “Doctor’s orders. He needs you still so he can fix you up.” The sound of the doctor cutting her pant leg caused him to turn and watch as her skin came into view with each snip. “He’s gonna get started on your thigh now so you better steel yourself because the pain is coming right….about…..now.”

Gibson’s eyes went wide as she cried out, jerking her body up against Trevor’s. She could feel the burn as the doctor was probing her wound, searching for the bullet. Involuntarily, she kicked the old man off, sending him stumbling backwards.

“We are going to need hands on her legs,” the doctor said, casually returning to the table and clamping a large wad of gauze on the bleeding wound. Gibson’s leg thrashed but he just smiled serenely, keeping pressure on her wound. “Where is Michael?”

Trevor looked to the kitchen at the door. “Michael!” he yelled, “Get your tub of lard in here!”

The door burst open and Michael stepped out triumphantly with a pair of white handled bolt cutters. “Found em!” He looked at Gibson who looked at him. “She’s awake.”

“Who the hell is that guy?” Gibson shrieked. 

Michael put the cutters down on the island counter and walked around to her. “I’m Michael De Santa. Welcome to my home.”

“Charmed, I’m sure,” she grunted back. 

The doctor ushered Michael to the other end of the table, “I’m needing you to help hold her down across her calves. This is going to be very uncomfortable for her and I don’t particularly trust her to stay still.” The doctor glanced at Gibson, “No offense, my dear.”

“None taken,” she replied around Trevor’s body. 

“Now,” the doctor said gently, “Hold her firmly. I’m going back in.” Gibson’s eyes screwed shut and she sucked in a large gasp of air, holding it.

“Don’t hold your breath, you dumb ass!” Trevor yelled in her face, Flecks of spit speckling her nose and mouth. He could hear the forceps click together and then the squelch of the tips pushing into Gibson’s thigh wound. While she was no match for Trevor’s weight and strength, she seized up against his arms, still holding her breath but also screaming from behind sealed lips. “Breathe!” Trevor hissed, “Don’t be a fucking pussy, Gibson!” his voice was softer than before but still sharp. He felt her hand slap against his bicep and then the burn of her nails digging into his skin. This time Trevor sucked in a gasp. The burning grew hotter and with his free arm, he reached under his pressing arm and covered her strained hand with his, squeezing tightly. “Go ahead,” he whispered to her. “You’re not gonna hurt me.” Tears squeezed out from her tightly closed eye lids and streamed down the sides of her face, slipping into her ears and then on to the plastic that covered the table. 

From the other end of the table there was a squelching sound. “Almost got it,” the doctor muttered. Trevor felt Gibson twinge beneath him. The sensation of her tense body and her nails against his flesh was disturbingly intense. Trevor’s heart began to beat faster, his breathing hitching.

“Make him stop,” Gibson whined quietly between gritted teeth. “Please make him stop.”

“Just ride out the pain.” He had no idea what to say to try and comfort her or whether he even wanted to comfort her. “Just ride it out with me, baby.” Trevor had experienced this same pain before, the digging of a bullet from the body with no relief of medication. It was miserably agonizing and he vaguely felt sympathetic towards her.

“Ah, I got it!” The doctor exclaimed.

Trevor turned to see the doctor pull out the bullet and plop it onto the plastic. Gibson’s body began to relax a little under him and he turned to look at her. A pained moan escaped her lips as she began breathing hard. Her grip on his bicep loosened slightly. 

“Alright, kid. We’re almost done.” took a glance back to her leg and then said to her, “There is blood everywhere. Its beautiful kind of.”

Gibson’s eyes opened and she glared at him, tears still pushing their way out from under her lids. “Thats…nice,” she croaked.

The doctor shuffled around and then announced that he would now flush the wound. Trevor leaned on her again in anticipation of her inevitable struggle. Fear washed over Gibson’s face, her lips paled, her pupils dilated in pain, and her brows pressed together. 

“Don’t you puss out now,” he growled. “I didn’t drive your bleeding ass all the way to Rockford Hills to have you embarrass me by being a little bitch.” 

The sting of her nails returned. “Fuck you,” was all she said before her mouth opened, letting out a strangled scream. Trevor shuddered as she gripped him even harder and he tightened his hold on her hand. Her chest strained against his body as she arched her back and thrashed against him. It was kind of hot. Gibson let out another moan that sent shivers down his spine. Ok, it was really hot. Then she went still except for the shaky rise and fall of her breathing. 

“Now its stitches,” Trevor told her. “The easy part.” Gibson merely nodded, her amber eyes drifting the the ceiling. Occasionally she made small whimpering noises for each time the needle popped through her skin. Soon, however, she grew quiet. Though her tears still came in earnest, she released her death grip on Trevor’s arm. He continued to grasp her now slack hand as the doctor stitched her up. His dark brown eyes focused on her face, watching her as she flinched slightly with each pass of the needle. For a moment she looked back at him and their eyes locked. It was a very quiet moment where all Trevor could hear was the click of the forceps, the blood rushing in his ears, and her strained breathing. He had the overwhelming urge to kiss her. And not on the lips or passionately. Just gently on her cheek or her forehead. Trevor pulled his eyes from her and looked down to the other end of the table. “Looks like six stitches,” he said. Then he turned back to her. “And all done.”

“There we go.” the doctor said, satisfied at his handiwork. He quickly began cleaning and bandaging the wound. “I’ll leave you some antibiotics and pain killers in case you have any issues with the sutures.”

“I’ll take them for her,” Trevor said quickly.

“No, I’ll take them,” Michael intercepted. “She may want to take them later.”

Trevor grimaced. “Who’s fucking side are you on anyway?”

“Mine,” Michael said as he released her legs. He made his way to the kitchen, grabbing the bolt cutters and bringing them around. Trevor also let go of Gibson, taking his weight off of her chest and stepping back to asses the damage to his shoulder. There were five bleeding, bright red scratches showing angrily on his grimy skin. 

“Damn,” Trevor said, his eyebrows raising, “That could have been my back.”

Gibson let out a hoarse laugh. “You wish.” Michael came up with the cutters. 

“Great,” Trevor said. “Lets get this over with.” He held out his wrist to Michael.

“Hey wait!” Gibson exclaimed. “Don’t do that!”

“Too bad, baby,” Trevor replied, “I’m going to have to cut the cord with you.” Michael began inspecting the chain, trying to find the best way to sever it.

“No! Hell no!” Gibson jerked her arm which jerked Trevor’s arm away from the cutters. “You’re going with me to Vice City, asshole! You owe me!”

He glared down at her, “Oh you’ll get reimbursed but I’m not going to Vice!”

She kept jerking the chain and he pulled back. “I swear to god if you cut that chain, I am coming back with some of the Vercetti boys and we will hunt you down!”

“Its a date then,” Trevor roared back, “Michael cut the fucking chain!”

Michael hesitated just as he was about to press the handles of the bolt cutters together. “Wait,” he said, pulling the cutters away from the chain. “You know the Vercetti’s?”

“Yeah.” Gibson’s eyes narrowed and she smirked. “Tommy Vercetti is my father.”

“Oh…oh fuck.” Michael let out a shaky sigh and backed away with the cutters. “Trevor, I am not getting mixed in with this shit.” He looked at his friend. “Just go with her and get this straightened out.”

In an instant Trevor’s eyes went from impatient to enraged. “Fuck! That!” he yelled, “I don’t know who the fuck the Vespuccis are and I don’t fucking care! Cut this shit NOW!” Michael shook his head and tossed the bolt cutters into the living room where skittered across the tile and carpet, coming to a rest beside the couch. Trevor yelled at Michael and then made a lunge for the cutters, pulling Gibson off of the table along with the plastic and everything on it. The tools clattered and her body slapped hard onto the tiled floor. 

“You son of a bitch!” she cried, through gritted teeth.

“Trevor, calm down!” Michael yelled as he knelt to help up Gibson. She planted the heel of her hand in the center of his chest, pushing him away and then reached into the remains of her shirt producing a small key ring. Before Trevor could get close enough, Gibson yanked back on the chain, causing the balding man to take a few stumbling steps back. With the slack in her favor, Gibson quickly unlocked herself.

“I would rather just come back and kill you!” she shouted. Trevor turned to see her wrist free and his eyes went wide with desperation. 

“Give me that fucking key!” he bellowed.

“Kiss my ass, maniac!” she returned as she took another hard yank at the chain, pulling him forward and then down to her. Before he knew it, she had locked the free cuff around his ankle, used him to pull herself up, and then shoved him hard onto the floor. His body slammed onto the clay tile and Trevor let loose a stream of obscenities as he struggled to stand.

Before Michael could stop her, Gibson hobbled to the bolt cutters and grabbed them from the floor, then took a swing at Michael when he tried to grab them from her hands. She glared at him, “Back off, man!”

“Ma’am,” came a calm voice. The doctor was picking up his implements, “Your stitches.” Gibson paused to look down at her shredded pants and her now freely bleeding wound. She rounded on Trevor who was almost on his feet, and shoved him back down with the bolt cutters. Her wide amber eyes had narrowed into small slits and she hissed at him with her teeth bared. 

“You. Are. A. DEAD MAN!”

The short haired woman stalked to the patio door, trailing blood behind her, and threw the doors open. She took a couple of steps into the rain and with one great spinning heave, she shot putted the white handed bolt cutters over the wall and into the darkness. Gibson turned and limped back to Trevor who was on his hands and knees. She grabbed a hand full of his thinning hair and jerked his head back, “Where is my gun?” she growled.

“Fuck you,” Trevor retorted. He made a long snorting sound and then spat a large acrid wad of mucus and saliva at her face. The warm glob splattered on her cheek and then began sliding down, leaving a stinking trail. Before Michael could stop her, Gibson had slammed Trevor’s face into the tile. Once, twice, and then a third time.

“Where is my fucking gun?” she screamed in his face, then slammed his face down once more.  
“Where is it?” Her eyes were wide and wild as she looked at his now bleeding lip and nose. “Where the fuck is it?” Gibson went to smash his face again but was stopped as two arms wrapped around her middle and pulled her off of the bleeding man on the floor who was still belting out every curse word he knew and a few he had just made up for the occasion.

“That’s enough!” Michael said loudly like a father refereeing two unruly children. He swung her around and pushed her towards the table. “Either you get stitched up and get the hell out or you just get the hell out!” he said, plopping her on the table. Gibson, red faced and furious, stared at him with a predator’s gaze. Her chest rose and fell violently as she forced in and banished air from her lungs. Michael, not fazed by her stare, returned her hardened gaze.

“Just calm down,” he commanded evenly. Gibson kept her eyes locked on Michael for a few moments more then let out a huff, looking away and offering her leg to the doctor who began to repair the ruined work. 

“And you!” Michael shouted at Trevor who had made it back to his hands and feet. Michael shoved a chair behind him and sat the bloodied man down. “Have a fucking seat and cool off!”

“What the fuck, Michael?” Trevor roared, having to look up at his friend against the restrictive shackles. “You’re gonna let this bitch do this in your home?”

“oh, like you haven’t pulled worse here,” Michael snapped back. “Her little temper tantrum here is nothing, NOTHING like her father’s! That man will waste no time in killing you if anything happens to her! You’ve already screwed her over and gotten her shot!” Michael ran his hands through his hair as he paced back and forth. “You are going to get in your fucking Bodhi, drive her to Vice City and-“

“Oh, fuck you,” Trevor said dismissively rolling his eyes and glancing away.

“No, fuck you, Trevor!” Michael yelled back, turning towards his friend. “You are gonna go handle your shit! You’re not going to bring Vercetti bullshit in my house! They start retaliating and you, me , my fucking family, are all as good as dead!” Michael’s hands ran across his face and then back up through his hair. “The only reason the Vercettis' haven’t started in on Los Santos is that they haven’t had a reason to. They own Vice and they seem to be pretty happy with that! You,” Michael pointed at Trevor, “don’t know shit about these people! You have no idea what kind of danger you are putting all of us in!”

Trevor begrudgingly listened to Michael’s rant, taking it in and considering the consequences as they pertained to his best friend. It was true that Trevor didn’t know anything about the Vercetti Family or even Vice City for that matter. If it was just him, he wouldn’t care. He’d just do the usual. Go in guns blasting or die in a blaze of glory, as was his style. Unfortunately, he had unwittingly drug the whole thing into Michael’s kitchen and if anything happened to him or his family, it would be on Trevor’s head. 

He looked over to the woman on the table, on her back again. Her cheeks were still red and her chest was still heaving as she lie there with one arm over her eyes. Trevor let out an angry grunt.

“Argh, fine!” he spat, “But I’m doing this for you and your family, Mikey!” then he looked over at her again. “We are going to have to go back for Wade and Chef!”

Gibson lifted her arm and turned towards him. “Who’s Wade?” Her voice, though quiet, was still pointed.

“I’m responsible for him. He’s my….uh…associate. If we don’t go back those biker assholes will kill Chef and probably Wade too.”

“Oh,” she drew out the word as her mouth formed a wicked smile. “You mean that dread head simpleton with the meth cook? Pshh. Don’t worry about them.” She looked back up at the ceiling and repositioned her arm over her eyes. “They’re already waiting for you in Vice City,” she laughed.

Another string of obscenities spewed from Trevor’s busted lips. This time Gibson didn’t reply or even acknowledge his angry tirade. She merely kept on smiling from under the crook of her arm.

“And then I’ll make you eat it!” Trevor finished, panting. There was no sound except for a low chuckle rising from her throat. 

“Me and you,” she said lazily, “Are going to have so much fun.” Then she peeked at him from under her arm, “Mr. Philips, I’m going to change your fucking life.” Her voice dropped slightly, “You’re not the only crazy son of a bitch on the block, baby.” She covered her face again.

“What the fuck is even coming out of your bimbo mouth?” he returned. Gibson remained silent, patiently waiting for the doctor to finish. “Answer me!” Trevor yelled, “You don’t have shit on me, cupcake! After I repay you and we are all square, your scrawny ass is going to regret this!” His voice lowered into a sarcastically sweet tone. “Its a loooong drive to Vice City, sugar,” he threatened. “A lot of places a person could get lost in that desert.” She still didn’t reply and he frowned. “Fuck! Are you even listening to me you cunt stain?”

“Trevor, shut up!” Michael cut in. “Just shut the hell up.”

“No, its fine,” Gibson finally said. She sat up gingerly, inspecting her newly patched up wound and then slid off the table, her boots hitting the ground with a soft thud. “Its ok because while I was getting sewn up a second time,” she shot a look at Trevor then continued, “I had some time to think and I have had a change of heart.” She kicked Trevor’s feet apart and stepped between them bending down and taking his chin in her fingers. “I don’t want the money anymore.” Her fingers pulled his face to hers. “I just want the flesh.”

Trevor’s busted lips stretched into a wide smile and his tongue flicked his bottom lip. “Now that, sugar tits, I can give you.”

“Ugh, no,” she pushed his face away and stood. “Not that.” Holding her breath, Gibson began rifling through his front pockets, searching for the keys to the Bodhi. “Where are they?”

“The gang is more towards the middle, sweetheart.”

“No, you pervert, the keys to your truck!” she stepped back, and huffed. His smile told her everything she needed to know. “You left them in the truck?” Trevor chuckled and Gibson sighed, pressing her fingers together on the bridge of her nose. She turned to Michael. “Mr…uh….um..”

“De Santa.” Michael offered.

“Townley,” Trevor whispered.

Michael’s eyes rolled and then focused back on Gibson. “De Santa.”

“Right, Mr. De Santa,” she began, not even bothering to mask the tone of her voice. 

Michael knew that tone of voice from Amanda. The tone of voice that said, “I’m so very done with you but I need something.” He had come to resent the sound of it even coming from a different mouth.

“Since my clothes are in tatters, would you be able to assist me in finding suitable clothing? I don’t know, some sweats or something?”

Michael nodded, “Yeah, hold on. I’m sure Tracey has something.” he grumbled something and walked through the living room and out the archway that lead to the stairs. Gibson watched him leave and as he was out of sight, she turned back to Trevor, then looked at the Doctor who was shoving the bloodied plastic into a large trash bag, and now was done with the clean up. 

“If it isn’t too much trouble,” Gibson said, “Could you take a look at his lip and maybe stitch it up?”

“Of course I would-“

“Nah,” Trevor protested. “I’m good. I’ll be fine.” Gibson looked back at him and shrugged.

“Suit yourself.” Then back to the doctor. “How much do these house calls usually run?”

He smiled at her, his old face still peaceful as if he had already seen it all and chances are that he had. “I usually bill later. Probably around 13 hundred.”

Gibson nodded and reached into her back pocket, pulling out a small metallic card case. Her fingers, slightly sticky from the drying blood, drew a card from the case and handed it to the old doctor. “Please send the bill here and I will have it taken care of.” The old man gingerly took the card from her maroon fingertips with his elderly clean ones. “Thank you for your work and patience.” She offered her hand and the old man took it, despite its current state, and shook it firmly.

“I will just see myself out.” he said, patting her back and scooping up his doctor’s bag. Gibson walked him as far as the archway and then came back through the living room to the kitchen. There was a dish towel hanging from the oven and she took it to the sink. Once it was warm and wet, she wrung it out and went to Trevor. She hauled up another kitchen chair and sat in front of the slumped man.

“Pick your head up,” she told him softly. He obeyed, looking up at her with a deep scowl as she reached out and gently pressed the warm towel to the right corner of his bottom lip. Trevor sucked in his breath and pulled away. “Just stay still,” she said, reaching again. He twisted his head back and snatched the towel with his unbound hand.

“I can do it myself,” he muttered and began wiping off the blood from his face. Gibson watched him for a little bit and then looked away.

“Hey, I’m sorry I lost my temper with you,” she said. Trevor paused, mid face wipe and gave her a hard, thin lipped, frown.

“Are you really trying to apologize to me right now?” he grunted. “What kind of bullshit is this?” he continued to wipe his face and then suddenly he screwed up his face. He took two short hard breaths in and then let out a massive sneeze. Something dark and viscous flew from his right nostril and landed with a wet smack above her knee on her bare skin. They both froze, looking down at it.

“Well that’s fucking gross.”

Then they looked at each other, startled by the unison of their voices. Gibson couldn’t help it and let out a poorly stifled laugh. Trevor huffed and forbade himself to smile despite the twitch in his chin. Gibson leaned over and took the towel from him. It slid around on her skin as she tried to corral and grab it with the towel. Trevor reached over to help.

“Just, just kind of grab it.” he said

“I know how to wipe up a clot.”

“Well, just,” he said, his voice tapping frustration again, “There.” He had used his hand on one end off the towel to smash it against the side she held. He pressed his hand on hers as he took the towel and clot and then he continued to clean his face.

“It really was pretty impressive,” Gibson admitted.

“Yeah, it was ok.”

She tried to catch his eye but he deliberately looked away every time. “You know, it wasn’t supposed to go like this but you pissed me off, Mr. Philips.” she leaned forward slightly. “When I saw that you were going to ditch me there at your shitty trailer, that really set me off.”

Trevor croaked a laugh, “Your’e kidding me, right? Because it looked a whole hell of a lot to me that you got your panties in a wad when you busted your stitches.”

She sighed and crossed her arms, leaning back again. “No, that’s when I lost my shit.”

“There’s a difference?”

“Well, yeah,” she told him. She leaned back in her chair, over the back rest and let her spine stretch, letting out a series of wet pops. Her lips released a satisfied moan and the looked back at him. “When you pissed me off, I decided to take you and the money but then I realized that money means nothing to you. So then I decided I would forgo the cash for something a little more interesting.

He gave her a lascivious grin and the edges of her lips dropped.

“No. What ever your sicko depraved brain is thinking, no.”

He shrugged and tossed the towel to the table where it missed and hit the floor. “A man can try, I guess.”

She just smiled and shook her head, looking anywhere else but at him. Gibson could hear him breathing and feel that his eyes were still on her. She turned to him and sure enough, his hazel eyes were still boring into her.

“You know what?” she said, standing up slowly. She stepped to him and bent down brushing his cheek with hers. She let out a warm breath against his skin and then took in another one, “I really wouldn’t mind,” she said, her voice soft and buttery, “I mean really, really wouldn’t mind if you did.”

“Did what?” he asked. She felt his voice waive against her ear.

“Try,” she nipped his earlobe and stood quickly. The look on Trevor’s face was a mixture of surprised and arousal. He opened his mouth to speak just as Michael rounded the corner with a pale blue track suit in his arms. 

“Its last season,” he said, handing the clothing to Gibson. “So obviously it couldn’t stay in my daughter’s closet anymore. From her donate box to your hands.”

“Teenage girls,” Gibson replied. “Um, where can I find a bathroom?”

“Just right around there. Down that way to the right.” he said. She turned left. “No, right…yeah that’s it.”

“Thank you!” she called back and she closed the door. Michael looked down at Trevor who was grumbling to himself.

“Do you understand,” Michael started, “what kind of shit you might be in if you don’t comply with her?” Michael took the seat Gibson had been in, flipping it around and straddling the back of the chair and putting his forehead on it. “Fuck, do you know how much danger you could be putting us in?” Michael looked up at Trevor who was looking at the ground. “I know I don’t say this very often but you might want to take it easy here. The Vercetti Family isn’t some two bit wanna be mob street gang. They’re the real deal and that woman in the bathroom,” He jerked his thumb in Gibson’s general direction, “She’s got your balls in a-“

“Ugh, don’t say it Mikey”

“-In a vice and you’re going to play along.”

Trevor huffed in annoyance. “I should have known something was weird about the leather clad inbred fucks. The opportunity was just too good to be true.”

“What did you put in that meth?”

Trevor shrugged and rolled his bloodshot eyes. “Shit, Mikey, who knows? I asked Chef to make it extra special and he worked his meth head magic.”

“It was hydrogen nitride and 2H-chromen-2-one.” Gibson’s voice came from the hallway.

Michael frowned in confusion. “What?”

Before Gibon could answer, Trevor did.

“Rat poison.” He clicked his tongue. 

Gibson emerged from the walkway. “Original.” she said sarcastically. She tugged at the tracksuit and while it fit well enough, it sagged slightly where she didn’t have the curves to fully fill out the top and hips. Unfortunately the seat of the pants fit too well, emblazoning her cheeks with “Sexy bitch” to match the words “Sexy Bitch ’69 all day all night” on the back of the jacket. It was something she wouldn’t be caught dead in but things being as they were she was grateful. 

Michael looked from Trevor back to Gibson. “How do you know?”

“Thats what the toxicology report said.” she handed Michael the same kind of card she had given to the doctor. “I am very, very sorry for any damages incurred by my visit.” Michael took it. “Please bill me for any repairs and I will personally take care of it, Mr. De Santa.” 

Michael took the plain white card from her fingers and looked it over. “I honestly had no idea Tommy Vercetti had a daughter; not that I keep up with Vice City.”

She smiled, “Well now you know.”

He crossed his arms and leaned on the credenza that abutted the dividing wall. “You’ve got your father’s temper I see.”

Gibson nodded, “I do. I try to keep it in check but sometimes that special someone comes along and pushes all the right buttons,” she said wistfully, “you see red and….and well you know how it is.” She chuckled and gave Michael a playful punch on the shoulder. He handed her the bag with medications which she took, thanking him. Then she turned from him, curtly ending the conversation. “And you, Mr. Philips.” she held the cuffs. “There are a couple of ways we can do this. Chained up in the back of your truck or in the front seat, cuffed but still shackled to me.” She crossed her arms. “So, how do you want it?”

He smirked at her, his eyes glinting. “I want it rough, sweet cheeks, I mean if you don’t mind.” Trevor gave her a wink to match the leer on his mouth. “I get off a looooot faster when its rou-“

“Back of the truck it is.” she said cutting him off and slapping the short cuffs on his wrists.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Trevor backpedaled, trying to keep an air of casualty to his voice. “I’m a reasonable guy. Lets work this out.”

“I already gave you two options. This is your last chance to pick. She bent down a little at the waist, her face level with his. A graceful finger tapped his nose with each word. ‘How. Do. You. Want it?”

If looks could kill the one he was shooting at Gibson would have been manslaughter. “Looks like I’m hitching my wagon to your train, doll face.” he replied through gritted teeth.

“Good choice.”

“So how am I going to drive all chained up?”

“Oh,” she said almost in surprise. Turned her back to him, “You won’t be driving.”


End file.
